Landon Stephen Murray Dosch - A Birth Story

Oh, another birth story. What magic we have been a part of, what depths of emotion, from joy to pain, fear to utter peace. Just over a month ago we wondered how on earth our lives could get any better. The sun was setting on a perfect early summer’s evening. Matthew was home with us and I was eating some perfectly marinated steak. Around three o’clock in the afternoon, I had my first contraction ever. Strange that, considering I was gone 9 months pregnant, and this was not my first born, but Samara’s birth adventure was not a textbook one, and I went from zero to one hundred in a matter of minutes. What I was feeling with her in the early stages of labor was in fact more like seizures, true convulsions, where as this birth story began with sudden but surgelike waves of pain that I could easily talk or walk through, so much so that Matthew commented that the happy excitement of the evening was more like drinking games on New Year’s Eve rather than a painful start to labor. The waves were crashing at my parents’ home, the evening was just perfect, Samara glowing and running through their rose-trimmed yard like every day before, but Steve’s casual time-keeping showed us they were growing closer and a little stronger. In her wisdom and knowledge of what every baby and pre-baby noise means, Mummy said that we should leave Samara there to sleep, so as not to disrupt her in the middle of the night, and while it brought tears to my eyes and pain to my heart to leave her, I knew she was right. Thank my sweet parents for being Samara’s surrogate keepers before and then. Had she shed a tear or sensed the change that was about to come, it could have broken my heart, in my tender, hormonal state that night, but she waved us buh-bye and she, herself, stayed up until almost midnight playing with everyone on Stevens Rd. I was not going to complain. A third of a mile up the road, I was packing my hospital bag, sweeping floors and realizing that I wouldn’t be waking up in this gorgeous home of ours again mother of one. When I’d last thought labor was pending, I was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety, but this time, being that it was Saturday night, Steve was by my side, Samara was happy and oblivious and oh so loved, and we were ever so grateful Baby D2 was deciding to come on his own, I was remarkably calm. Around 10:30, Steve hit the pillow and I tried, but the contractions were getting oh so strong and the most I could do was prepare myself in energy and will and prayer for all that lay ahead. An hour later, I woke Steve and said it was time to go. Driving to the hospital ourselves was serene. Yes, I was in pain. Yes, it felt surreal, but the streets were quiet, the evening was warm and we were ready. We checked into the hospital at 11:59pm on June 5th and from then on, the hours passed quickly, for which I was grateful. Even better is that Dr. Coffey, our small town hero, was on duty that night and he saw me and put me at ease quickly. I was 4cm dilated, so I had a way to go, but tolerating the contractions well and he would check me again as the hours passed. Around 5am, Dr. Coffey ordered me a walking epidural. It’s standard for my type of trial of labor, or VBAC, but they wanted to have the tube in place in case I needed the c-section in the end. I was so nervous about the epidural, and the nurse had to help me stay still for the anesthesiologist, but it passed and I could control the pain meds myself over the next few hours. I never needed to push the little ‘save me’ button, but it did finally make sense to me why I had it. Because of the VBAC, I also had a catheter, constant monitoring and an IV ready to go. I couldn’t complain about not being able to walk through my contractions, as again, now in the thick of things, hearing that little heart rate rise and fall with my aching, I understood how well-thought out this all was and I was so grateful for the care and support of the medical experts around me. Our nurse was Dana, expecting her second baby in July, also a patient of Dr. Coffey’s, and we felt connected in so many ways. She was calm and placid, in the middle of the night, and answered my hundreds of questions with expertise and kindness. She and Dr. Coffey would both finish their rounds later that morning, but I credit them with the successful, healthy, birth of our little baby in many ways and like so many women in the beautiful world of labor and delivery, I have this unspeakable love and appreciation for them and those who followed. Those who followed were Suzanne, our nurse, and Dr. Mary McCaffrey. Gosh, I was sad to see Dr. Coffey and Dana go, but if I had known the dream team that was awaiting me, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. Suzanne had three boys of her own and had had two successful VBACs. Over the course of the next few hours, she and I would bond in incredible ways and I would open my heart to her about my traumatic experience in Colombia, my fears of everything that could go wrong and my selfish, lifelong desire to experience childbirth. Dr. McCaffrey had an angel face, a strong, willful manner, a soft voice, a tender touch and a sparkle in her eye. The first time she shook my hand, I felt entirely at ease, trusting her with my life, my unborn chlid’s life, and everything in between. I had loved and adored Dr. Coffey for 9 months, but in an instant, Dr. McCaffrey felt like a mother, a doctor and a friend. She was a Godsend, I am sure. When she checked me around 8am, I was still just 6.5 cm dilated. The verdict was that if I wasn’t fully dilated by 10am, I’d have to have a C-Section. Because of my particular set of circumstances, my placenta being somewhat misplaced, and the baby’s heart dips growing a little deeper, they weren’t too confident that he/she could tolerate this labor well, and since I wasn’t dilating, and they were predicting a big baby, they wondered if my pelvis was putting up a wall. I was hopeful but nervous. The contractions were strong, I was exhausted, the clock was ticking and I was certainly anxious. At 1pm, my Mummy who had been mostly by my side since 1am (going back and forth to Samara) would have to go to Marina’s graduation. I, of course, was sad to miss it, but it went without saying that Mummy had to be there for her baby girl. 10am arrived and the news wasn’t good. I was 7cm, but no more. My cervix was paper thin, but still not 100% effaced. Suzanne and Dr. McCaffrey came together and we discussed a number of things. With tears in my eyes, I understood a C-Section was moments away, and while deep down I was okay with that, I mean, of course it didn’t really matter, on my tired, emotional, worried surface, it felt like defeat, like a burden I couldn’t carry. I worried about the recovery, as it had been so horrendous last time. I worried about not being able to lift little Samara. I worried about not hearing that little cry, or seeing my baby the moment he or she was first born, or not knowing what was going on. Mummy came in and found me with tears in my eyes. She said all the things she could (though I know her chief concern was probably that another emergency c-section could mean no more babies for us!) and told me what I knew, that it didn’t really matter, but in my weakness I uttered “all my life, you’ve always said, childbirth is the most beautiful thing a woman can experience” and with tears in her eyes and more sorrow and truth than I ever remember she said, “I wish I’d never said that.” I have told Samara’s birth story, the true, hard emotion of it all, to only a few people, but it came rushing back. Even Mummy doesn’t know the depth of emotion I went through and how, so foolishly, but in that raw state, I actually feared telling her from Bogota that I’d had to have a C-Section. It was different this time. The woman I most admired was by my side, but gosh, I wished it different. Suddenly, Dr. McCaffrey, as if trying to carry a part of my aching heart, came in with strength and conviction in her voice and said that they would put in a uterine catheter and see whether the problem appeared to my contractions or my pelvis.
The hour with the catheter passed. Every 10 minutes nurse Suzanne had come and checked the readings. Sometimes it looked good, a lot of times not so much. Contractions should read 180-200 units on the catheter and mine ranged from 120-180. We hoped they’d read low and have an explanation for my lack of progress. Dr. McCaffrey made the call at the hour that in this special situation I could have the tiniest dose of Pitocin to see if I could progress that final 2 cms. It wasn’t a solution, and even the smallest deviance from her hope could cement the C-section, probably an emergency section which would then probably mean a general anesthetic, but it bought me another hour. That said, I had been told for months by Dr. Coffey that VBACs can’t have Pitocin as the risk of a uterine rupture is too great. I felt so torn and questioning of our role in all of this. Frankly, a hysterectomy wasn’t a worry, but my little baby’s life could be at stake. Even though I was anxious to see if it could work and not thrilled to have yet another tube stuck into me, I could feel the level of investment of my doctor and nurse and the sense of belief that they had in me, perhaps beyond the belief I had in myself. I was humbled, and I couldn’t help but question what we were doing. Who am I to say how this little one is born? Who am I to have dreams bigger than life itself? For minutes I protested this noble step of medical expertise and careful consideration. I said I would have the C-Section and that any dip in my baby’s heart was too many dips for me to bear. So humbled again, I also feared, having never delivered a baby, the dream team would get me to pushing and that I wouldn’t be able to do it, especially knowing what a big baby this looked to be, but Dr. McCaffrey stood firm in her belief in me, even when I faltered. That is the kind of Heaven-sent woman she appeared to be.
It was 1:00pm now. Marina’s graduation was in less than an hour. I knew Mummy had to go and I feared going into surgery without her, having something go wrong without her. I didn’t even dare think the baby could be born without her there. I could feel her heart pulling her in so many directions, but she had to go. Outside it was pouring, stormy, another tier of the drama and emotion of the whirlwind. But to my Mummy, that day, I credit the care of my gorgeous firstborn, her immeasurable support of my entire family, the tears of worry, joy and celebration of so many things, and the ability to be in more places than one, even if she could not physically hold my hand. I told her I would keep her posted on my progress; She would keep her phone on silent to answer. And so it went that at 2:35pm, Dr. McCaffrey came into my room and announced that I was, in fact, 100% there! She had come after the promised hour on Pitocin and once more I had failed to get there, but an extra hour got me to where I needed to be, yet again, an hour I didn’t think I had, and I’m quite certain, I wouldn’t have had with anyone else in the world. At 2:40pm I called my Mummy just 10 minutes away and said I was going to start pushing. I didn’t know but at that moment Marina was on stage, singing for the last time ever as a school girl, a beautiful song about life, love and all that matters. Mummy answered in a whisper and I could hear her voice, though almost inaudible, break with emotion. Two of her children needed her so much at that moment, gosh, she had longed to see this baby born, but life is unscripted and chaotic, and that is why we have loved it so. I put down the phone, the contractions ever so strong, the desire to push, so overbearing, and I closed my eyes, as Suzanne quickly explained how on Earth I was going to get this baby out. Mummy, on the other end, had tears in her eyes and started making obscene puffing faces at Marina on stage so that she would know the latest. I do love the wacky, adoring bond of us Hare girls. Steve was called into action, and not 30 seconds later, I was pushing with more vigor and heart than I knew I had. About 5 minutes into pushing, baby’s heart dropped dramatically. I heard it myself and I was scared. The nurse pushed the emergency button to call the doctor but she was delivering another baby. In stormed 4 nurses. I was more scared. They gave me an oxygen mask and told me to stop pushing. Memories of Samara’s heartbeat all but disappearing came flooding back. The tension in the room seemed immense and I was aware of every look, breath and pulse of mine, and the nurses. I held that mask so tightly to my face and willed this young one to recover. Time stood still. How can life be so strong, yet so fragile? His or her life was calling out to me. And like a wind from Marblehead to Salem, suddenly the tension passed. The beat, beat, beat, boom, boom, boom returned, and while my eyes were still closed, I knew that we were okay. Baby had recovered enough to go on and now I was even more motivated to do what I’d not known I could do. Dr. McCaffrey arrived, moved the delivery table up to my bed and I was told that was a great sign. I knew the pushing stage could go on for hours, and I had no sense of whether I had minutes or hours to go. I daredtnot think about the agony or the time, but treated each push like my test of love. Suzanne was the wisdom and force that I’d dreamed I’d have. She was firm and guiding, yet kind and not gushing. She had just two or three great tips for me that were all I needed. And Steve was amazing. You don’t really imagine the man you love, the one you chose, under those kind of circumstances. The stress, the raw need, the gore, the unearthly wonder, you can’t possibly imagine that. And so seeing him there, feeling his guidance and will, his admiration and awe, I fell more and more in love. How much bigger could my heart get?! It is a gift to share something so profound with someone you simply adore. So focused and supportive, so present and in love with both me and our still unborn child. I was in a zone, a holy prayer, eyes-on-the-prize, feel-no-pain, zone. I cried out in pain just once, at that critical burning moment when you’re advised not to push anymore as the head is ready to emerge. And Dr. McCaffrey was expert. As our little one entered the world, at 3:10pm, I saw HIM first, healthy, chubby, crying, truly, for dear life. Steve cut the cord as I exclaimed “it’s a boy!” He hadn’t even noticed, so focused on the task at hand! There will never be words to describe that moment when you meet your child for the first time. Nine months of kicking, hiccupping, worrying and praying are just a grain of sand compared to the infinite holy story that lead us to be in each others’ lives. And from that moment on, you remember nothing else. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the fear of my bad tests along the way hadn’t weighed hard on my heart from time to time, but as baby Landon lay on my chest, I knew, no matter what else could be said, he was perfect. Perfect for me. Perfect for our family. After the delivery, there was still work and pain ahead, but within moments of being born, my son was already my savior. With this precious, perfect creature upon me, how could anything else matter? There is a miracle in every birth, no doubt. Samara Dorothy Marie, named after my grandmother, whose birthday it is today, and in whose honor I finally complete this remembrance, was our first born, whose entrance to this world was not peaceful but defined. When I first held her, my heart grew another dimension. She was all we ever dreamed of. She is my little girl, her Mummy’s daughter, and I genuinely adore her. And Landon Stephen Murray was our first son, named after his father and great-grandfather, the only continuation of the Dosch name, a little boy we prayed over for so long, his father’s hero already, and I have felt no peace and bond like the one I felt when he joined us. The four of us were destined to be together, it is like we have known one another our whole lives. Steve and I celebrated our fourth anniversary a week ago today and while that yearly milestone is one of my favorite days of the 365, always, four years speaks nothing of the lives we have chosen and we work, with love, to intertwine. Yes, we are some of the lucky ones, the blessed parents and servants who know only love. It is even greater now, and we give thanks. I have written letters that try to convey this appreciation to my dream team and today, by chance, I ran into Dr. Coffey at the supermarket, my little perfect boy asleep like an angel in the chaos. What love. What gratitude. I am humbled more every second as a mother. What a story a birth story is. What love is parenthood. I have two unspeakably perfect children and no matter the trials, tears and traumas of our days, we have known a miracle and we live in joy.